Collateral Balance
by JacksBoonie
Summary: Oneshot Michael is sick, and Lincoln faces the decision of leaving him with TBag to go get medicine. While he's gone, however, TBag learns something about the brothers from Michael's delirious state that he probably shouldn't have. MiLinc, Hint of MiTBag


AN: Well, Kats and Kittens, this is my first ever _Prison Brea_k fic, and I'm happy to say that I'm rather proud of it . . . But I'm hungry as hell, so I'm going to wrap this up and just let you read the damn thing, yea? Enjoy!

Quick note before I go, though. This is obviously an AU, but not too badly altered. Haywire was still left behind, but T-Bag's hand hasn't been chopped off, and the crew was able to get past the road blocks. They still missed the plane, but they have the van, and C-Note split from the group to be with his family.

Disclaimer: I do not own the television show _Prison Break_. I do not own the characters of the television show _Prison Break_. If I did, there would be so much slash, it would have to be on HBO or Showtime. Hell yes!_  
_

_Collateral Balance_

It had started as a simple cough, a hoarse throat, two days before the breakout. Sara had noticed and had started him on antibiotics, but after their escape, things had only gotten worse.

Now, Lincoln holds his brother's shaking form in the back seat of a large, dark van, parked in the lot of a closed pharmacy. The older man's teeth grind as the tremors worsen, and Michael whimpers, his eyes tightly shut and his breathing labored.

"Damn it," Lincoln mutters into the silent compartment. "What the _fuck_ is taking them so long?"

By _them_, he means Sucre and Abruzzi, who had left nearly five minutes ago to find a way into the building without setting off the alarms. The only other figure in the van is T-Bag -- Haywire having been left behind _days_ ago and C-Note having jumped ship when they passed through is part of town.

"Now, now, Muscles," T-Bag drawls, leaning over the back of the middle seat and into the man's face with a yellow, cheeky grin, "they'll be back soon enough. Then Pretty, here, will be right as rain." An ironic statement, considering the sheets of water that pour down from the sky, none of it seeming _right_ in the least. Bagwell reaches a gnarled hand out towards Michael's cheek, intent on stroking it, but Lincoln quickly slaps it away, pointing a finger in the pedophile's face.

"Don't you put one fucking finger on my brother," he seethes with a low growl from the back of his throat. "You hear me?"

"Easy, _Sink_." T-Bag slouches back slightly, Lincoln's nickname rolling off of his tongue languidly. "Just lookin' is all." He holds his hands out in an innocent gesture, his face displaying a look that is anything but. "No need to fret." Lincoln eyes him warily once more before returning his attention to his brother. The young man whimpers again, his back arcing as he grabs desperately at his brother's upper arms.

"Linc," he cries dryly, his voice cracking as violent sobs wrack his body. "Linc, Linc, Linc . . ." He chants the man's name over and over again until he is barely able to whisper.

"Shh, Michael," Lincoln closes his eyes, pressing his cheek to the top of the younger man's head as his voice wavers. He is dangerously on the brink of tears. "It's all right, little brother. We're going to get through this. We always do." He rocks Michael back and forth slightly, ignoring the fact that T-Bag is watching this display with more than a little curiosity. The older of the two brothers thanks whoever may be listening to his prayers that the scumbag has the decency not to ask questions or make lewd comments. Perhaps there _is_ an ounce of humanity in Bagwell after all . . . a very small, microscopic ounce . . .

"God," Lincoln forces past the lump in his throat. "I thought we left all this behind us, Mikey . . . You said you had it under control." The older man wants to scream, to spit insults into thin air, to leave the van and throw a damn tantrum right in the middle of the rain-drenched parking lot. Michael had promised him these outbursts were no longer a problem, that he could handle them.

They only ever happen when his mind overloads with information, resulting in either a pain-staking sickness or a complete mental meltdown. Lincoln is grateful that it is only the sickness this time. He isn't at all sure if he could handle a non-responsive, catatonic brother like the one that Michael had become in solitary not two weeks ago -- whether it had truly been a ploy to get into the psych ward or a fluke that had just so happened to work in their favor, Lincoln does not know . . . nor does he care to.

Suddenly, the side door is opened roughly, and a soaking Sucre and Abruzzi stand just outside, squinting against the heavy rainfall.

"We found a way in," Sucre calls over the wind. "A grate around back, but it's going to take three of us to lift it."

"Are you serious?" Lincoln demands in a defeated tone, his shoulders slumping as the added noise causes Michael's fit to worsen.

"Nearly ripped our arms out of their sockets with just the two of us," Abruzzi complains, rubbing his shoulder and rotating the sore joint.

Lincoln sighs, stroking the side of his brother's face while contemplating their next action. There is no way in hell that T-Bag's skinny arms are going to be able to lift that grate -- not if it takes three people to move it. But Lincoln will be damned if he's going to leave his helpless younger brother with this sick son of a bitch without a means to defend himself. His mind wars between these two thoughts before a harsh voice pulls him back to reality.

"Linc!" Sucre yells, the only one of them with the gumption to do so and one of the very few that Lincoln will allow to. "If we're going to do this, it's got to be now. Someone's bound to be here to open this place within the hour."

With one last glance at the shivering young man in his arms, Lincoln makes his decision, saying, "All right." He shifts slightly so that Michael is sitting forward and motions with his head to Bagwell to climb into his place. "You'll watch Michael."

"What?"

"Are you crazy?"

Both Sucre and Abruzzi protest at the same time with incredulous looks as the pedophile gives a rueful grin, beginning to climb over the seat.

"I'm the only one strong enough to help move that grate," Lincoln counters, the look on his face clearly stating that he is not happy with the decision either. "I can't chance moving him. It'll only make things worse." He runs his fingers through Michael's short hair before continuing. "Besides, I know what I'll be looking for. I can be in and out in less than five minutes." He, suddenly, grabs the collar of T-Bag's shirt, pulling him in close until their noses are barely an inch apart. "And _you_," the words are a feral growl, Lincoln's eyes narrowing to slits, "if _one_ hair on his head is misplaced when I get back, so help me God, I will tear you limb from limb very . . . very . . . slowly."

Bagwell swallows audibly, donning that slimy smile that only he can pull off and chuckling nervously, "No problems here, Boss. Pretty and I, we'll get along just fine. You go on and take care of things." Lincoln gives the man's clothes one more rough tug for good measure before fully shifting out of the way and allowing the wiry man to slide between him and his brother. Climbing out of the van, he gives Michael a worried glance before turning and following Abruzzi.

Sucre quickly reaches over, giving Michael's leg a couple of pats as he says, "Hang in there, Papi." He gives Bagwell a warning glare and closes the door, running after the other men and leaving the two in the van with nothing but the sound of rain on the roof and Michael's ragged breathing.

"Well, now, Pretty," T-Bag whispers to the trembling figure in his embrace, "ain't this a peach? Just where I want you, and no one around to hear your-"

"Linc," Michael's desperate cry interrupts the man, and T-Bag gives a heavy sigh, rolling his eyes heavenward.

"I s'pose, given the circumstances and your . . . _state of mind_," he says with annoyance, "I could cut you a little slack . . . seein' as I owe you and all."

Not that he will admit it to anyone -- least of all _himself_ -- but he feels a sense of . . . dare he say it . . . _gratitude _towards the young man. He knows how much Michael hates him, how much flack he has been picking up from the others for his presence. But Michael is the kind of man that keeps his word, despite current circumstances and company.

Because of this, Theodore Bagwell cannot do any harm to the young man currently wrapped in his arms -- not until the older man finds a way to pay him back, that it. But if anyone -- _anyone_ -- finds out about this minor hiccup in his personality, there will be a major problem.

"But you won't tell anyone, now, will you, Pretty?" T-Bag asks as if the other had read his thoughts, swaying back and forth slightly as he presses his cheek against the side of the younger man's head. An eerie silence coats the van's interior, and Bagwell shifts uncomfortably.

"You know," he says awkwardly, "'Michael' is Hebrew for 'who is like God.'" He chuckles lightly, the jerky movement of his chest causing Michael to bounce against him. "Ain't that irony at its finest . . . Then again, 'Theodore' stems from the Greeks -- it means 'divine gift.'" He gives a wheezing laugh. "The Lord certainly has a sense of humor."

"L-Linc!" Michael calls again desperately, his back arcing and his head falling back against Bagwell's shoulder. T-Bag gasps at the contact, closing his eyes and reveling in it. Well, he never promised that he wouldn't allow the kid to start anything, did he? Michael grasps the man's left thigh with one hand and his right upper arm with the other.

"Shh, now, Pretty," T-Bag rasps into the younger man's ear, taking in a sharp breath as Michael's fingers bunch the fabric of his slacks and he presses himself further into the man behind him. "Big brother's gonna take good care of you. Don't you worry." His breath hitches as the other man turns his face into the crook of his neck and inhales deeply.

_Lord, this kid is going to be the death of me_, he thinks with a groan.

Suddenly, Michael's lips are pressed bruisingly against his own, the younger's tongue forcing its way into the shocked man's mouth. The tremors of the body plastered to T-Bag's chest slowly begin to subside, and the older man is left staring wide-eyed at the sweating, gasping person in his lap as the contact between them is broken.

"Y-You're a good brother . . . Lincoln," Michael murmurs before the muscle spasms start again and he moans with exhaustion, clutching at his only anchor.

T-Bag sits motionless for a long moment, unable to do anymore than stare down at the sick man whimpering in his arms, now wrapped loosely around Michael's waist.

Never mind the fact that he most certainly just contracted whatever illness the young man has . . . Michael Scofield and Lincoln Burrows have a dirty little secret -- one that Theodore Bagwell intends to keep to himself.

"Now we're even, Pretty," he whispers into the soft head of hair beneath his chin, watching the other three convicts approach the van at a run, Lincoln's arms loaded with several bottles and boxes of every shape and size. "Now we're even."

AN: Questions? Comments? Vague disregard for any or all words written and established in the mind of one who has no sanity?

Any good? Hope so. I'm thinking of writing another piece that sort of pertains to this one, only instead of the sickness, we get the "non-responsive, catatonic" Michael. Any interest? _cricket chirp_ Anyone?!


End file.
